


Grimalkin

by vivelemike



Category: Deep Purple (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Jon is doing his best, Just Add Kittens, M/M, Male Slash, Musicians, RPF, References to Depression, but in the best way, deep purple mkii, jon/paicey if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29540223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelemike/pseuds/vivelemike
Summary: “The bloody hell are you on about, Ian?”But Ian didn’t even seem to have heard him. The taller man was now focused intently on the water, staring at something that for the life of him, Ritchie couldn’t see.“What is it?” Ritchie tried again, edging closer.Then Ian was jogging down from the path to the lip of the solid shoreline. Ritchie gaped, mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.Ian hesitated for one painstaking moment before he gracelessly flung himself into the lake.
Relationships: Jon Lord/Ian Paice, Ritchie Blackmore/Ian Gillan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Grimalkin

**Author's Note:**

> This is all fiction. No real life spouses, children, parents, siblings, extended families, etc, will ever be used in my RPF fics as I don’t want to characterize individuals who aren’t necessarily in (or want to be in) the public eye. Thus, this fic is somewhat AU. I mean no offense to the people portrayed in the fic or to their aforementioned family members. 
> 
> *WARNING* This fic contains RPF slash - don’t like, then please, don’t read. 
> 
> I’d love to hear from anyone who enjoyed this fic! If you’ve got any requests, please, by all means, leave them here! Thanks!

_**CHAPTER 1** _

_ (the countryside, early 1970s) _

  
  


_ Self-love, grimalkin of the human heart, _

_ Is ever pliant to the master’s art; _

_ Soothed with a word, she peacefully withdraws, _

_ And sheaves in velvet her obnoxious claws. _

**_1\. W. Holmes, Terpsichore_ **

“So you’re really not going to budge, eh Blackers?”

Ritchie hastened his pace and pulled his overcoat closer around him. He frowned into his collar and pressed forward into the early evening chill. Frost was collecting along the lakeside path, and a few snowflakes dotted the darkening sky.

Ritchie had only wanted a break from the stifling nature of being shut in recording with his bandmates - with  _ Gillan. _ He’d only wanted a brisk walk around the castle lake; paved with gravel and sparsely wooded in pine, the path around the small lake offered some measure of reprieve. But Ritchie wasn’t even afforded this small mercy.

Ian Gillan himself had charged out after him. His face now ruddy from a dangerous combination of cold and anger. Ian hadn’t had the presence of mind to put on a coat in his rush to follow Ritchie from the castle estate, and was left only in a fraying t-shirt. 

‘ _ Let him freeze to death for all I care. _ ’ Ritchie thought to himself with a sneer, staring past where Ian had caught up to him at his side, and out into the black depths of the lake - still free from ice in the early winter. 

The lake was nearly devoid of people in the dark and cold. With himself and Ian counted, there was only one other lone figure - walking some distance ahead. The figure walked from the lip of the distant path, where the shore met with a steep drop-off into the lake that Ritchie imagined functioned as a diving spot in the summer months. The figure seemed to stare out wistfully into the fretful waters of the lake, before turning away and walking back towards the estate.

Ritchie curiously followed their path for some moments, but eventually figured them to be a castle groundskeeper, or farmer of some sort.

Ian wasn’t nearly as engaged.

“Seriously Ritchie? The silent treatment - really?”

‘ _ Yes, you fool. Can’t tolerate not getting your way for five minutes, can you? _ ’ Ritchie’s frown pulled into a snarl as he sped up, moving as quickly as he could to distance himself from the overbearing singer.

“Christ Ritchie!”

* * *

_ “Christ Ritchie!” _

_ In a flurry of movement Ian had Ritchie pushed against the door, closed under their combined weight. Ian’s mouth was hot against Ritchie’s own, and Ritchie’s hands - caught in Ian’s lovely mane of hair - came away with torn strands when he thought to release his grip. _

_ Ian nudged a long leg between his thighs and anchored himself there, groaning into Ritchie’s mouth as he was met with the barest hint of resistance. Ritchie splayed both hands across Ian’s broad chest, while the larger man rubbed positively sinful patterns into his sides. Then Ian’s hands started to drift downwards, and Ritchie was just about eased off his feet.  _

_ “Brute.” Ritchie let out in a sigh when Ian finally pulled away for air. _

_ Ian only smirked, before leaning in again close. “Wait until we get to the second act.” _

* * *

__ Ian shoved at his shoulder and Ritchie stumbled, thrown from his reminiscence. After catching himself and restabilizing, he turned to glare at the other man, hoping that the cold was enough to excuse the warm flush of his cheeks. 

Ritchie appraised Ian’s furrowed brow and the concern in his eyes. ‘ _ At least the great oaf still had the good sense to look guilty.’ _

Finally making eye contact with the guitarist, Ian saw his opportunity to cut in. “Hey, Blackers, c’mon, I’m sor-”

Ritchie turned away with an audible huff and again quickened his pace. 

He could only expect the answering crunch of Ian’s pursuing footsteps.

“How come it’s always me chasing you anyways? Or Jon’s chasing you. Or Paicey, or Roger.” Ian was behind him now, no longer making an effort to come to his side. “It’s always all about you. Like you’re the only one that hurts.”

Ritchie’s fingers clenched and unclenched in the pockets of his overcoat. He hunched inwards, keeping his gaze directed strictly to the rocky path, lest Ian catch the storm brewing in his eyes. 

“Y’know, soon even Jon is going to get tired of this.” Ian snarked cruelly.

Ritchie blinked heavily, pretending he hadn’t heard. 

* * *

_ Ritchie quietly crept down the stairs, easing himself towards the hushed voices. With each echoing step through the castle’s great hall, Ritchie prayed he wouldn’t be found out. After his earlier violent outburst, Ritchie had holed himself in his room and isolated himself from the rest of the band.  _

_ Hours later, he wanted to test the waters.  _

_ Further down the dark hall was a soft glow of warm, orange light. Coming upon a door ajar to one of the estate’s many sitting rooms, Ritchie found that he could faintly hear Jon and Paicey over the crackling of a lit fire. _

_ “...turn out. He just needs some time.” _

_ Ritchie’s ears pricked up and he pressed himself to the wall outside the door jamb, careful not to let his feet catch the sliver of light emanating from the open door. He imagined Paicey rubbing a comforting hand up and down Jon’s shoulder, whispering soft words to ease his mind. _

_ ‘It’s his own damn fault.’ Ricthie thought to himself bitterly. ‘He’s gone and decided to play caretaker - let him break under the pressure if he wants.’ _

_ Jon sighed tiredly, and Ritchie could picture the organist’s long, drawn face pulled into a frown, as clear as if he was in the room with them. “I hate this. This isn’t what we’re supposed to be. This isn’t Purple.” _

_ Ritche’s brow furrowed, bristling. ‘What the fuck was Jon on about?’ _

_ “He’s just in one of his moods, Jon. You know how he is.” Paicey’s soft voice again, quietly reassuring.  _

_ For a long moment Jon remained silent. Ritchie was just about to slink back up to his room.  _

_ Then he heard Jon’s tearful, shaking voice, and he froze. _

_ “But, you didn’t see him up there.” Jon’s voice sounded the most distraught that Ritchie had ever heard. “You didn’t see him, Ian.” _

_ Ritchie’s shoulders dropped, and his earlier tenseness reformed into a twisting pain in his gut. He pressed himself further into the wall as Jon continued. _

_ “He was in the hallway, just sobbing. Not crying - sobbing.” _

_ “Jon-” Paicey tried, more hesitant than before. Ritchie held himself against the wall with trembling hands. _

_ “I tried to talk to him-tried to sit with him - but - but he just cried harder. He wouldn’t say anything.” _

_ Jon sounded so utterly hurt and Ritchie felt ill. ‘Wouldn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything.’ _

_ “So I gave up. I just left him there.” A shuddering breath. “I don’t know how to help him, Ian.” _

_ Ritchie couldn’t take anymore and left quietly.  _

* * *

“And I’m getting damn-well tired too. You get in one of your  _ moods  _ and I get the big bad guy treatment: ‘ _ Oh Ian, what ever have you done to poor, darling Blackmore? Leave the dear alone, would you? _ ’” 

Ritchie could hear Ian kicking at the path’s gravel - though thankfully aimed away from the backs of his legs. 

“Even _ Rog  _ thinks this is my fault!” Ian exclaimed. “And he’s supposed to take  _ my  _ side.”

* * *

_ Ritchie’s chest tightened as he hung back around the corner from Ian’s room. He could hear the giggling, gossipy laughs of what sounded like a couple of girls. And Ian with them.  _

_ Then followed the moans and groans, and unmistakable creaks of a too-old mattress bed set.  _

_ Oh. _

_ “Shit.”  _

_ Ritchie startled and he whipped around to see Roger starring behind him. _

_ “Fucking Gillan,” Ritchie attempted to recover, willing his face into its usual glower. “Keeping me up with his bloody racket.” _

_ Both men shifted awkwardly when one of the girls let out a long, shaking shriek of ecstasy - as if to make Ritchie’s point.  _

_ Roger eyed him sadly with a shake of his head. “Ritchie, they don’t - he doesn’t…” Roger scrubbed a hand across his face. “It doesn’t mean anything.” _

_ He forced a disparaging chuckle. “What are you trying to convince yourself? Are you in love with the bastard, Glover?” _

_ Roger blinked with a deep set frown. “No. I’m not the one in love with him.” _

_ “Oh God! Oh yes, yes - Ian, yes, yes, baby please!” A heavily accented female voice broke over the barrier of the wall, combined with the steady pulse of the creaking bed thumping into a wall.  _

_ Ritchie stormed away, past Roger, heart wrenching at the sounds of delight echoing behind him.  _

_ “Ritchie!” Roger called.  _

_ Against his better judgement, the guitarist turned. _

_ With an impossibly sympathetic face - that made Ritchie’s blood broil with disgust - Roger wiped both sides of his face, under his eyes. Ritchie glared in confusion until he cautiously reached up and felt his own cheeks. _

_ His face flushed at the wetness he found there. He turned swiftly on his heel and scrubbed at his betraying eyes. _

* * *

Ritchie kept his pace without sparing a glance back.

“Well, you know what?” Ian offered with a breathless laugh, devoid of any humour. “Fuck you too, Ritchie! You think  _ I  _ want to be here? Well, here’s some news for you:  _ I don’t _ .”

‘ _ Then please - get the fuck away from me. _ ’ Ritchie wanted to plead. 

“ _ You’re _ the one who told me it didn’t mean anything! Fucking hell, you’re the one that’s been moping around in silence since!”

* * *

_ “Hey-hey-Ritchie, Christ, wait up would you?” _

_ With a groan Ritchie stopped in his tracks but refused to turn - forcing Ian to jog ahead to turn and face him. Ian’s usually charming grin was replaced with something more akin to nervousness. _

_ Ritchie arched a dark brow, while inside his stomach flipped unpleasantly. He had been preparing himself for what he would say to Ian when they next got a moment alone, but now all his ministrations were lost to him as he was faced with the man himself.  _

_ “Uh-hey.” Ian tried.  _

_ Ritchie was shocked at the singer’s total lack of his familiar (and obnoxious) bravado. A small part of him delighted at the red he saw dusting the taller man’s cheeks - in wonder at the thought he might be the cause of it. _

_ However, Ian, unsure of what Ritchie’s silence meant, shifted uncomfortably, growing anxious. _

_ “We haven’t talked since...” With a bold wave of his hand, Ian smirked flirtatiously, his usual disposition returning for a moment. Then as quick as it came it was gone, and Ian was glancing nervously around them at their empty recording hall before he could continue. “Well, since you know what.” _

_ Ritchie blinked in confusion.  _

_ “Talked? Do we ever talk?” Ritchie muttered. He couldn’t think of a single instance outside of the music and recording that Ian would ever want to bother talking to him. It hardly seeded they shared common ground outside of the band.  _

_ Ian looked suddenly affronted, and Ritchie wished he could take back whatever it was he’d said to upset him. “Of course we talk.” _

_ Ritchie rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean-” But Ian impatiently cut him off. The other man’’s earlier fragile nervousness had transformed into an all-consuming hostility. _

_ “Never mind then.” _

_ “I only meant-” Richie tried again, a pleaful edge marking his words, but Ian’s upset remained unchanged and once again interrupted him.  _

_ “I thought, you’d be - I don't know, nicer? Happier?” Ian exclaimed, frustration creeping into his tone. “God forbid the great Ritchie Blackmore be happy! _

_ Ritchie tensed at the other man’s audacity. “What? One fuck with superstar Ian Gillan and I’m set for life?” The guitarist sneered. “Oh thank you Ian - I have been saved.” _

_ At the sound of approaching footsteps, Ritchie skirted around Ian and took off down the hall, trying and failing to dispel the ache he felt at Ian’s hurt expression. _

* * *

The memory brought with it a great deal of shame, and the especially rare urge for Ritchie to apologize. 

But then he imagined Ian’s handsome, smug face smirking down at him, and any thought of reparation disappeared from the guitarist’s mind.

Ian was still behind him, ranting angrily. “Fuck-what was I supposed to do?  _ Save myself _ until you were ready for another toss? In another what-maybe ten years? If you're even  _ talking to me _ then that is.”

_ ‘Not a terrible idea actually.’ _

“It’s always about you though-isn’t it? You expect the rest of us to just _ fret _ and  _ worry _ over your every-” With a sudden start Ian cut himself off. He froze and started scanning the frost covered shoreline. 

“Did you hear something?”

Ritchie could barely stifle an answering snort. ‘ _ Please _ ,’ He thought to himself. _ ‘As if he could ever fall for such a foolish trick - and certainly never one played by such a great fool as Ian Gillan.’  _

“No seriously, don’t you-” Again Ian cut himself short. He turned away from Ritchie and looked back to where the near-black waters lapped up at the rocky shoreline. 

This time Ritchie stopped with him.

“The bloody hell are you on about, Ian?”

But Ian didn’t even seem to have heard him. The taller man was now focused intently on the water, staring at something that for the life of him Ritchie couldn’t see.

“What is it?” Ritchie tried again, easing closer.

Then Ian was jogging down from the path to the lip of the solid shoreline. Ritchie gaped, mouth opening and closing like a beached fish. 

Ian hesitated for one painstaking moment before he gracelessly flung himself into the lake.

“Ian!” Ritchie cried out in shock. He rushed down to the water’s edge, staring into the abyss that Ian had disappeared in. 

“Ian!”

He struggled with his coat for a moment, making to dive in after the other man - but Ian was the stronger swimmer of the two regardless of any other weight advantage. Ritchie looked around desperately for someone to call for help, but the figure he had spotted earlier was long gone, and he was left deserted.

He looked back out onto the lake. Ian was nowhere to be seen.

In a panic, he dropped to his knees and scrambled around looking for something he could use to help pull Ian in. He found a long and sturdy branch, which he dragged with him to the shoreline. He dropped to his stomach on the frost-dusted, frozen ground and maneuvered the branch to reach out and dip into the water.

“Ian!” He pleaded again, desperation seeping into his tone.

Suddenly Ian remerged from the murky waters with much the same burst of energy that he had disappeared with. 

With a jolt of nervous energy, Ritchie swung out the branch that he’d found, almost impaling Ian with it in the process. After a moment of orienting himself, a gasping Ian latched himself onto the branch with a one-armed grip. Ian’s eyes -shining blue orbs in the dark - were wide and staring at him with the sort of biblical reverence that Ritchie had only ever read about.

With all of his might, Ritchie started heaving the branch back onto land until Ian was again close enough to grab hold of his arm, and with Ritchie’s help hoist himself up. Ritchie’s arm burned at the strain of the larger man’s weight, but with grit teeth he held out. The entire time the two men never wavered their eye contact, both desperate for the lifeline it offered.

Once Ian was out of the water, Ritchie collapsed onto his stomach. Ian hobbled away on his hands and knees, but curiously, Ritchie thought he saw something tucked into his chest.

“ _ What. The. Fuck. Was. That _ .” Ritchie punctuated each word with a shuddering breath.

But Ian was crouched some feet away, with his back to him. Hunched over and shivering.

“Ian?” Richie weezed, trying and failing to push himself off his stomach.

The larger man was mumbling a string of nonsense that Ritchie couldn’t quite hear over the wind and lapping of the lake. He thought he could see a dark bag, and then suddenly Ian went entirely still.

Ritchie froze as well - half expecting Ian to topple over. 

Then a tiny, pitiful meow. 

“Oh fuck-thank christ!” and Ian was stumbling to his feet and racing over to where Ritchie was still on the ground. 

With one hand clutching a dark bundle to his chest, Ian used the other to haul Ritchie to his feet.

“Ritch-Ritchie-here! She needs someone warm and dry.”

Ritchie blinked, his expression blank.

With an impatient groan, Ian threw open Ritchie’s ill-fitting overcoat (much to the horror of the smaller man) and bundled a sopping wet  _ something _ to his chest. The  _ something _ squirmed and Ritchie automatically brought his hands to cradle it closer as Ian stepped away.

While Ian started frantically trying to rub warmth back into his bare arms, Ritchie squinted down at what was resting in his own arms. A tiny black face peered up at him with near-to-glowing yellow eyes.

“Oh.” Ritchie mumbled, quite sensibly.

The kitten meowed pathetically, before it gave another mewling cry. 

“Oh.” Ritchie mumbled again. 

“Wrap her up tight,” Ian said, shivering. Ritchie hated how small the other man’s voice sounded. “She’s freezing.”

Ritchie obliged, pulling his coat tighter around himself and the soaked creature crying against his chest. Ritchie worriedly looked between the cat and Ian - whose hair was flung around his face in clumped tendrils, already freezing in the night air. 

The vocalist was staring intently at Ritchie and the kitten, unmoving except for the chattering of his teeth. His t-shirt and jeans were soaked-through, and it looked as though he was missing one of his shoes. 

“Well come on then!” Ritchie hissed impatiently. Still cradling the bundle in one arm, he used his free hand to tug at Ian’s clammy arm. The other man was freezing. Ritchie thought his own fingers would turn blue just from where they rested on Ian’s damp skin.

Ian mumbled something that Ritchie couldn’t quite make out but took to be an affirmative. He started cutting across the path and over the estate field to where he knew one of the castle entrances lay straight ahead.

With the soft whines of the kitten in his coat, and with Ian - being dragged along by Ritchie’s numb grip on his arm - trailing behind him, the entire thing felt eerily surreal. Something unpleasant twisted in his gut when pictured Ian disappearing into the black waters, and Ritchie edged on even faster, as if fleeing from some supernatural force lying in wait at the bottom of the lake. He imagined an icy, molting, frostbitten hand pulling and tearing at Ian’s ankles as he dived in to save the kitten. 

Ritchie shivered, and it wasn’t just from the cold.

“Almost there.” He muttered to himself, focused intently on the nearing glow of the castle’s warmth.

**...**

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello, hello lovelies! If people are interested in more of Ian, Ritchie, Grim, and the other Purple lads -- then please leave a comment or some kudos and I’ll do my utmost to make it happen.  
> As always: huge thanks to everyone reading. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t bother if it weren’t for you.


End file.
